


Bitterness

by apfelbirne



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/M, Magister Hawke, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelbirne/pseuds/apfelbirne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How easily you assume the mantle of Magister."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitterness

"Do you enjoy it?"

Hawke's eyes narrow as she turns her head towards the fire. She brings the rim of her wineglass to her mouth as she weighs her response. Her eyes flit over to where Fenris looms in the corner of the study. His gaze is hard and Hawke knows she should not dance around the issue any longer, and yet... She tips her head back downing the half-filled glass to prepare her. 

"Enjoy what?"

The words leave her and lie like a challenge in the air. Hawke is nothing if not a master of deflection now. Fenris sneers at her newly honed skills for he knows their origin and is far too familiar with them. "How easily you assume the mantle of Magister."

Fenris makes a challenge of his own. The flames in the hearth become wild betraying Hawke's veneer of control. True to form she retaliates, "When in Minrathous..."

The thread snaps. He crosses the distance between them lyrium flaring before she can suck in a breath. He seizes her roughly by the arms in a vice grip allowing the cruel points of his gauntlet to cut into the flesh. He leans over her to use his standing position to his advantage. 

"This is not a joke."

His eyes are dark with a deep loathing. His breath is hot like an angry bull. But Hawke does not cower under his ire and instead locks her eyes with his meeting his hatred with burning indignation. "If you mean I enjoy not being told I am a creature of sin for my magic and that those who have wronged me now fear my reach, yes. I enjoy it."

There it is. Hawke, the one mage for whom Fenris had unwittingly cultivated hope, falls to temptation. He snarls and shoves her away from him. He turns on his heel to leave, but Hawke springs from the overstuffed chair to chase him and grips him by the wrist just as he reaches for the door handle. Her fingers close on the token he wears. The velvet is soft and it tempers her somewhat. "I will have my due."

He stands taut as a bowstring gripping the iron wrought door handle as if he means to snap it. "Keep your entitlement mage."

He spits the word as if it were the bitterest poison. Her fingers slip and her hand falls back to her side.

"Don't get in my way."

Fenris wheels about seething. "You do not command me."  
Hawke steps forward upon the blood red carpet. "You have followed me well enough until now."

A low blow. She knows this in her heart to be true, but the city has made her cruel. Weapons are for using if you have them or you will be dead before the night is done. Fenris' rage threatens to consume him and it is all he can do to keep from pinning her against the wall and forcing her to see his reason. Instead he wrenches the door open and settles for a last ditch counsel, "You are drunk on more than a Magister's fine wine. These promises are lies."

Hawke's cheeks flush scarlet in anger and what might be shame at his condescension. "How would you know? You are quick to judge and quicker to run away."

She is the lowest of the low. Fenris turns away from her and passes through the doorway into shadow. She loses sight of him when she hears his disappointed final strike. "I would not be surprised to see you bleed your slaves before the year is out."

The door shuts. A log splits and the fire cracks into pieces for her. It would be prudent to give chase, but she is weary and numb. In a daze, her feet lead her once more to her fireside vigil. The wine stands on the small, seven-sided end table commandeered for purposes of inebriation. Hawke’s fingers trail over the gold base of the glass. It is smooth and warm. She has become accustomed to nice things. 

Without warning Hawke grips the stem and hurls the glass against the mantle. It shatters into pieces which fall upon the hearthstone.

“A fine pair the two of you make.”

Hawke straightens not bothering to conceal her outburst. The pirate queen sits in the window with one eyebrow raised. “Want to talk about it?”

Hawke laughs, but it is harsh and caustic. “No.”

Isabela frowns, but steps down from her perch to approach. She reaches the end table and grabs the wine bottle by the neck. “Want to drink about it?”

“Maker, yes.”

 

Fenris stalks through the dim corridors. His footsteps, already quiet due to his lack of footwear, are further muted by the thick carpets lining the halls. Each plush footstep serves to incense him further. He is proving her right by running away. She is proving him right by giving into the temptation of a Magister’s power. They both want to be wrong, but alas, that is not to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very late to the party with this sort of prompt and still all I have to show for it is this drabble. I take too long to decide whether I really like something and even longer to write anything about it. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> By the bye, I've tagged this as unhappy ending only because it doesn't end on a positive note, but I don't mean to imply that this conflict couldn't be resolved at some later point.


End file.
